I have no favorites because most of them tend to be nothing other than talking heads twisting facts and reality to fit their desires and needs.

What spoils streams are those too lazy to pick up after themselves. Those who cross a no trespassing sign without asking the property owner, messing it up for those who were given permission to cross and fish. Those who feel they need to stomp down a major path wrecking every bit of mother nature along the way. And property owners who feel they need to have mowed lawn right up to the water line.

Yes, I am the Lorax who speaks for the trees, which you seem to be chopping as fast as you please. But I'm also in charge of the brown Bar-ba-loots, who played in the shade in their Bar-ba-loot suits and happily lived eating truffula fruits. Now, thanks to your hacking my trees to the ground, there's not enough truffula fruit to go 'round!

I am the Lorax, and I'll yell and I'll shout for the fine things on earth that are on their way out!

-- Dr. Suess, The Lorax

Posted on: 2009/12/31 12:07

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"Young men drink because they don't know who they are, and old men drink because they do." -- Gina Ochsner

Thanks for checking out the site. The pics were of my daughters girl scout troop. I was hoping that the forum would have taken off better, but it hasn't. The reason it is still up is due to the fact that it is free. The website is the first one I have ever built. I don't think that a lot of my members spend a lot of time online and on forums. Most are older guys.

"Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery."

jayL wrote:"Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery."